That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

The wheel is come full circle.

Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.